


Greedy Birthday Boy

by relativestranger



Series: Just MakoHaru Things [5]
Category: Free!
Genre: Established Relationship, Flirting, HaruMako Smut, M/M, MakoHaru Humor, Smut, So much flirting, fluff & smut, harumako, makoharu - Freeform, makoharu fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 11:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8577253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relativestranger/pseuds/relativestranger
Summary: Haru is ready to give Makoto his birthday gift. That is, if Makoto ever decides to wake up.





	

**Author's Note:**

> You know the drill (phrasing).
> 
> I'd tag everything but it'll spoil things. That is, if smut/porn is something that can be spoiled. 
> 
> Happy birthday, Makoto! All praise the Tachibooty. I mean Tachibottom. I mean Tachibana!
> 
> All aboard the MakoHaru debauchery train.

The first rays of red and orange peeks through the flimsy, plastic blinds, the bright glare from the sun shines in his eyes, causing him to flinch. It’s an exceptionally chilly morning. The goose bumps that erupt along his legs signal the changing of the seasons. So he pulls the thick down comforter over his head, snuggling deeper into their warm cocoon of a bed and the hot furnace that is his boyfriend because it’s cold and still too early to get out of bed. 

But then he remembers what day it is and bolts straight up with a gasp. Makoto snorts in a low, incoherent mutter and shifts slightly but is still in a deep slumber despite the harsh rocking from his rude awakening. He squints at the clock. The glowing red lights inform him that it's 7:16 so he gently slips out of bed without disturbing his sleeping partner any further.

He goes through his usual morning routine: pees, brushes his teeth, and washes his face. He decides to forgo the bath this morning and opts for a quick but thorough shower instead; he’s already running dangerously behind. After patting himself dry, he creeps into the kitchen. 

He moves around quietly, double-checking that he has all the ingredients for tonight’s green curry dinner and takes the chicken out from the freezer to let it defrost. Satisfied that he has all the necessary items, he sets up for his next task.  
As discreetly as possible, he rummages through the drawers and cabinets, pulling out pans, bowls, cups, spatulas, spoons, and whisks. He frowns at his kitchen counter currently littered with various utensils. It’s been a while, sure, but did cake making always require this much preparation? 

He sighs in displeasure at the lack of mackerel—Makoto is the only other person who seems to appreciate the mackerel-cake combination1—but it’s not the end of the world. Instead, he grabs a can of black beans, 5 eggs, vanilla extract, coconut oil, honey, cocoa powder, and baking powder. He steps back and his frown deepens. He is swiftly running out of real estate on his counter.  

 _Unacceptable_.  

He rinses the cake pan, bowls, cups, and utensils and sets the greased up and dusted cake pan off to the side. After rinsing and draining the beans, he adds them, along with three eggs, and vanilla into the blender and sets it on high. Thank goodness his mother got him one of those fancy, high-powered, quiet ones otherwise, Makoto surely would have woken up by now. 

As the blender goes to work, he mixes the dry ingredients together and, in a separate bowl, combines the coconut oil, honey, and the rest of the eggs in one at a time. He adds the dry mix into the coconut oil-honey-eggs mix and once the black bean mixture is lump-free, he combines the two. He pours the creamy batter into the pan, taps it a few times to pop any bubbles, and sets it aside to bake later. The smell of a baking cake would _definitely_ wake Makoto before he wants him to. Especially considering its chocolaty contents. He would like to work on the buttercream icing but he’s running out of time: Makoto is bound to wake up soon and he hasn’t gotten himself ready yet.

After shoving all the dirty kitchenware into the sink, he tiptoes back to their bedroom. He digs into his duffle bag and extracts a long green ribbon. He shifts his weight from foot to foot in indecision before nodding to himself firmly. Swiftly and expertly stripping out of his clothes, he takes the ribbon and ties it around himself, adorning a large, fluffy bow on his crotch. The corner of his lips twitch in amusement— _this is so absurd_ —and shuffles toward the bed. He climbs in slowly and awkwardly—not wanting to wake Makoto before he's presentable.  

He sits back on his heels, fluffing the bow again and making sure it's fanned out over his muscular hips and thighs. He waits patiently for Makoto to rouse from sleep, folding his hands in his lap.  

Five minutes pass and there’s no change in Makoto’s sleep status. He twitches occasionally which excites Haru into thinking he's waking but the steady rise and fall of his chest signals otherwise.  

Ten minutes pass and Makoto is still unmoved. Haru lies on his side, propped up on his elbow as he pokes Makoto’s cheeks with his finger. It has no effect. He hangs his head in defeat and flops onto his back.  

Fifteen minutes later, Haru paces the length of the room. It’s 8:30 now. How much longer can he possibly sleep for? He’s getting impatient and annoyed and very, very bored.  

After twenty minutes, he drags his laptop onto the bed to catch up on his news feed. He scoffs when he comes across an article entitled “World’s Best Waterfalls.” Although, he does admit that he would like to visit the Jembong Waterfall in Bali. Maybe after he and Makoto graduate, they can take a trip.  

It becomes obvious that Makoto isn’t waking up any time soon when twenty-five minutes go by. He grabs his Intro to Biology textbook and begins to study. Or, rather, he _tries_ to because at thirty minutes, he nods off.  

Thirty minutes turns into thirty-five and he’s back to pacing impatiently. It’s almost 9 and Makoto is still annoyingly, blissfully unconscious. It’s only in that exact moment standing in front of the mirror that he realizes just how completely and utterly ridiculous he looks with a wilted green bow hanging around his soft cock.  

At the forty-minute mark, he picks up his pencils and begins to draw. He does this a lot. And lately, the subject of his drawings is always the same: Makoto. He looks so peaceful and serene when he's slumbering like this—both stress and carefree. His features look even younger now that the furrowed brow of concentration and determination has melted from his face. He wonders if it’s creepy to draw him while he sleeps (the answer is a resounding _yes_ ) as he shades in the shadows splashed across his face. Beams of sunlight dance over Makoto's cheeks, the light catches in his thick (read: luxurious), brown hair, and his sharp nose twitches occasionally as if he’s about to sneeze.

Makoto finally shifts—he groans and stirs awake—causing Haru to scramble in a panic. He sweeps his sketchbook and pencils off the bed, not caring in the slightest as it clatters to the floor, and positions himself next to Makoto. He folds his legs under him and sits back on his heels. Noticing how mangled and wilted the bow is, he attempts to fluff the bow as best he can while Makoto blinks awake. Makoto blindly gropes at the space next to him and upon finding it empty; he lifts his head and reclines on an elbow. 

Rubbing his eyes, he finds his boyfriend kneeling by him, “Haru?”

Haru folds his hands primly in his lap and leans over to greet him with a chaste kiss, “Good morning, Makoto.”

Makoto hums sleepily into the kiss, “Hmm. M’rning.” He notices the allure of smooth, pale flesh. His lips quirks upward and slurs drowsily against him, “Why're you n'ked?”

“I’m not.”

He catches the streak of green out of the corner of his eye and peeks down. His head snaps up and flushes in surprise, “Haru! What are you—?” 

“Happy birthday, Makoto,” Haru interrupts with a low, sultry murmur.

“Har—” 

Haru presses his lips against Makoto’s; nimble fingers creep underneath his loose t-shirt, splaying his hands over his wonderfully warm flesh. He gently strokes and scratches his chest. Their kisses are light and teasing, unrushed and unhurried—on the fringes of being sensual—the two just enjoying being in the comfort of each other’s arms and company.  
But as usual, it escalates quickly: Haru’s affections _for_ and attraction _to_ his boyfriend boiling over at his sleepy hums and murmurs. Haru nudges him onto his back, straddling him, as their kisses grow increasingly deeper and hungrier. Fingers tunneling into hair, tongues stroking and tangling, hips undulating together. The ache and desire for more making them horny and needy, desperate and breathless as they grind against the other to fullness. 

As his hands drift toward his waistband, a strained noise of distress emanates from the back of Makoto’s throat. His warm fingers curl around one of his wrists, “Wait. Haru, hang on.” 

They reluctantly part; a frown marring Haru’s otherwise perfectly flushed face, “What for?” 

He clears his throat and subconsciously scratches his chest. “Can I wash up?”

Haru’s brow knit in confusion, “What?”

Makoto exhales with an impatient huff, “Well,  _you_ did. I know you don’t care but my mouth feels…” he licks his dry, grubby lips—the roof of his mouth feels like it has grown a thin layer of fur, “ _fuzzy_.”

Morning breath isn’t something they’ve ever minded after those first few weeks of their physical relationship, but _fuzzy_ is new. Haru sits back, his displeasure plainly written in his face. But fine. Whatever. It’s his birthday. He’ll yield to his every whim for the day. It’s the least he can do. “Fine.” 

Makoto pecks him on the cheek and, using his idiotic strength, effortlessly lifts Haru off his lap, depositing him in the center of their bed. He quickly scrambles off the bed and out of the room. Haru scoots to the end of the bed, leaning back on his hands, his legs dangling off the edge as he waits. He flicks at the ribbon, smoothing out the wrinkles with little success before giving up and throwing his head back and sighs. 

Makoto returns several long minutes later looking more alert and refreshed. The carnal lust bubbling at the pit of his stomach flares when Makoto shyly shuffles from foot to foot at the door, looking unsure and bashful for some unfathomable reason. He beckons him closer and, like two magnets drawn to each other, Makoto’s long stride eats up any distance between them. Haru pulls him between his legs. Kissing his chest and stomach through his shirt, he smirks when he hears—and feels—the quiver in Makoto’s hyper-aware and sensitive body. 

He rises to his feet, sliding his hands over, against, and around Makoto’s sculpted back and shuddering chest. He methodically pushes his shirt up his torso, slowly revealing more and more of the glorious bronze flesh, laving each new sliver of skin with a series of licks, kisses, and playful nips. As his mouth draws closer to his collarbone, Makoto lifts his arms up and Haru gently pulls the garment over his head. He rises up to his toes, encouraging Makoto to dip down to meet his lips. His thumb catches a nipple eliciting a gravelly whine from Makoto. 

Makoto reaches for him but Haru slaps his hand away, “No touching.”

Makoto retracts his hand, his bottom lip jutting out in an exaggerated (and unreasonably adorable) pout, “But Haru…” 

“ _No. Touching_ ,” he repeats sternly.

The pout remains and his cheeks puff up like an eager chipmunk overstuffing his cheeks but he nods in acquiescence.

Haru preens with a smirk and lowers his eyes. Dipping his index finger under his boxers, he hooks it around the waistband and gently tugs at it. He reaches in and draws his semi erect cock over the elastic band. Fingertips lightly ghost over his length, his cock twitching at the barely there—and sometimes not-at-all-there—touches until he’s fully erect. Haru slides his hand into his briefs again, cradling his full and heavy sack in his hand and gently stroking at the sensitive orbs. 

Makoto bites his lip, squeezing his eyes shut as he chants to himself that he mustn’t touch. His fists clench and unclench restlessly—uselessly—at his sides as it becomes more and more difficult to follow through on the touching ban Haru has enacted. The feather light touches sets every single nerve into frenzy. The fine hairs along his arms stand in reaction to the maddeningly teasing caresses. The heat flares from the pit of his stomach and radiates to the tips of his fingers and toes—making him numb and tingly and sensitive all over. His breathing grows short and labored as the blood rushes to his aching groin. The warm hand rolling his scrotum makes him weak-kneed, causing him to nearly buckle under his weight but Haru’s strength is able to support him. 

Haru’s fingers twirl at the thick, dark bush of coarse hairs at his groin before gently combing and tugging at his wiry curls. A blunt fingernail then drags up the underside of his erection and flicks at the leaking head. A thick, fat pearl of come beads up at the tip. 

Makoto whines, deep and low in his chest at the slow but relentless barrage of sensations. Haru licks at his jugular, trailing hot, wet kisses up to his earlobe. 

“Look at you... So hard and wet... You have such a smooth and pretty cock, Makoto,” Haru murmurs hypnotically, almost to himself.

Haru has called his cock a lot of things before: hot, long, big, thick, hard, wet, huge, so fucking good; but ‘pretty’ is a new one. It’s not a word he’d use to associate his dick with. (It is, however, a word he’d use to describe _Haru’s_ cock. Then again, everything about Haru is pretty and beautiful.) But coming from Haru, he finds that he quite likes it.

“ _Ha_ -Haru, please, I need... Please…”   

He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for. To be allowed to touch? For a firmer touch? For Haru to jerk him off? For him to _suck_ him off? For Haru to make him come over and over again until there’s nothing left?

“ _All... All of it_ ,” he chokes out.

Pleased, Haru hums at his response. “ _All_ of it? You’re so greedy, Makoto,” he playfully admonishes him with a teasing grin and firm squeeze at the base of his erection.

That’s when he realizes those weren’t hypothetical questions he posed to himself—they were real questions. Questions that Haru had whispered in his ear. 

Haru slips his hands behind Makoto, easing the cotton over his firm, infinitely bitable buttocks, squeezing them lustily before sliding it down his powerful thighs and letting them pool at his feet. Makoto kicks them away and leans heavily into Haru as his fingers absentmindedly glide up and down his cleft. Sapphire eyes sparkle in barely subdued desire as they roam over his nakedness: his delectable skin slick and glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, his muscles quivering with excitement and trembling as he struggles against the temptation of touching him. His Adam’s apple bobs roughly from his ragged intakes of air. 

Makoto is so pretty like this—muscles rippling, body shivering, voice keening all needy and desperate like as he struggles for breath, and his cock painfully hard.

It’s the painfully hard part that finally persuades Haru to take pity. He is intimately familiar with the feeling. He knows exactly how it feels whenever Makoto plays with him in exactly the same manner.  

He thumbs his cockhead and watches in fascination at his finger smearing the beads of pre-come to coat the smooth, red tip, making it glisten and shiny and irresistibly delicious. He thinks about how nice it would be to drop to his knees and take him in his mouth but his concentration is broken with the noticeable tremor in Makoto’s question. 

“Don’t… Don’t I get to unwrap my gift?”

“Later,” he dismisses casually. His hand wraps around the base of his cock again and squeezes him playfully—drawing a harsh, breathy, carnal  _ah!_ from the taller man and a fresh gush of pre-come to ooze from his slit.  

 _Hmm, a little more teasing won’t hurt._  

“I’m not quite done with you, Makoto. Try to exert some patience.”  

He swipes his thumb at the pearly head again; gathering the cloudy, bitter cream and bringing it to his mouth—obscenely sucking it clean all whilst staring straight at him. Haru observes the flared nostrils and blown pupils: the bright, jubilant greens in his eyes disappearing as the pout returns to his face.

“Stop teasing, Haru-chan.”

He arches a disbelieving eyebrow at him, “That’s like me asking you to stop petting every kitten that you come across.” 

Makoto snorts at the amusing comparison. They’re not alike at all.  

Releasing him, he chastely pecks his chin before stepping around him to embrace him from behind. He peppers lingering kisses across his broad back, nipping at the sharp planes of his shoulder blades before nosing the base of his neck and inhaling Makoto’s musky scent deeply. His arms curl around Makoto’s front, fingers gliding along his torso, blunt nails dipping in and out of the peaks and valleys of his flexing stomach, and tweaking his nipples. One hand drifts south, avoiding his erection but going straight for his balls while the other fondles his chest and stomach as he leaves wet kisses across his expansive back. The hand at his sack squeezes gently, causing Makoto to groan and buck against the hand.

Haru rises to his toes to nibble along the tops of his shoulders, rubbing his erection against the curve of his ass for temporary relief. He can come just like this: slide his cock between Makoto’s cheeks, rut against him and come all over his back. Makoto would relish in bathing in the thick come but he’ll save that for next time; there’s something more important he’d like to do.

Haru slides his hands to his back again. Makoto has as many dips and grooves along his back as he does in his front. Haru traces his tongue in those dips and grooves, enjoying in the sharp intakes of air Makoto takes whenever he finds a new indent to shower his affections on. Teeth graze and lips suck the knobby structure of his spine as he drifts his hands lower, brushing against the small of his back before slipping to and stopping at his ass. He fondles them lovingly, his thumbs stroking the curve of the irresistible little dimples on his round buttocks. The twin mounds of flesh are nothing short of glorious and contradictory: muscular and powerful yet soft and supple. He can’t wait to kiss and taste every last inch of him again. 

Makoto sways on his feet. Worried that he’s close to collapsing, Haru gently smacks Makoto on the ass and jerks at his head at the bed, “Get on the bed.” 

Makoto shuffles toward the bed and gingerly crawls on; careful not to jostle too much as his heavy, throbbing, painfully hard cock dangles between his legs. He gently flops on to his back and throws an arm over his eyes—feeling thoroughly debauched even though they’ve barely started. Haru slides into the bed and straddles him. Makoto reaches for bow but has his hands slapped away for his troubles.

“Not yet.” 

“Haruuuu,” he whines like he did when he was five.

“ _Not. Yet_ , Makoto. That’s the second time I’ve had to repeat myself. If I need to do it again, I will tie you up.” 

Makoto shudders. It’s not an unwelcomed proposition—they have had quite a bit (read: _a lot_ ) of (light) bondage fun since Haru accidentally blurted it out all those months ago. But he’s desperate to feel Haru’s skin—his muscles, his warmth—flex and coil under his fingertips. So, fine, he’ll be good.

Up to a point.   

Haru leans down, his lips brushing against mouth, cheeks, and nose before moving to his throat, feeling the blood pumping furiously underneath the hot, tender skin.

“How do you want me, birthday boy?” he drawls in his ear.

Makoto whimpers, his throat running dry, he can hear the heavy thudding of his erratic heart and he's positive Haru can too. His voice trembles but he’s confident in his desire. “You. I want you. I want to feel all of you,” he pants softly.  

Haru groans at his request. He knows what that means: Makoto wants him to top.

“Are you sure?”

He bites his lip shyly but nods frantically, “I miss you. It’s been too long.”  

While they eagerly and happily take turns, Makoto often bottomed when they had sex because Haru needed to be in peak physical condition during the season. (The lone exception being his birthday.) They learned very quickly that Haru bottoming hinders the peak physical condition mandate—even with cheat days where he had two straight off days (three seems to be the magic number for full recovery). His actual swimming wasn’t affected—he swam as well as he usually does—but his coaches and trainers would frown and screech at how sluggish his dives and turns were.

But the season ended last month.

He texted Makoto telling him that his coach let him go early so he didn’t need to swing by his campus to pick him up. Unbeknownst to him, his text had flipped a switch that had been lying dormant for almost three months. So imagine his surprise when Makoto burst through the door, looking wild and frazzled. Startled by his sudden appearance, he thought maybe something terrible had happened but Makoto just murmured how much he _needed_ him, spun him around, shoved his fingers in his mouth, and proceeded to nail him to the wall 2. Panting about how much he’d missed him and making him come twice (the first time just by _entering_ him—which pleased Makoto to no end) at the doorway before unleashing his heavy load into his quivering passage.

Haru has been _exclusively_ bottoming since then. It seemed like Makoto was trying to get his fill of him (or, rather, _filling_ him) or making up for lost time.

Not that Haru ever complained. Why would he? Makoto tends to spoil and pamper him whenever he tops. Taking his time to play and tease and bringing him to the highest of highs.  
And he just feels **_so_**. **_damn_**. **_good_**. The way he fits so perfectly. The way he can feel every bump and ridge and curve of his big, thick cock. The way his cock would swell and stretch him even long after being buried deep inside—as if something new had aroused him—but it’s just the mere fact that he’s _inside_ him. The way his cock throbs and pulses between his feverish walls when he slides in and out of him. The way his cock **_never_** fails to bring him climax time and time _and time again_ —wringing him dry until he’s nothing but an empty husk. 

But he also can’t deny that he misses Makoto.  
Misses diving into his tender, loving embrace.  
Misses being surrounded by his silky, delicious heat.   
Misses the way his molten walls seem to mold to the contours of his cock.   
Misses the way he gasps and whispers his name, full of love and adoration, as he approaches his climax.   
Misses the way he arches and claws at him at the height of his orgasm.  

“Well, whose fault is that?”

“Haru!” The pout is back yet again. “It’s not my fault Haru-chan feels so good. Besides… I like making you feel good.” 

Haru smiles gently, kissing the pout from his lips, “You always make me feel good. I like making you feel good too.” Haru pecks the tip of his nose, “And I’ve missed you too.”

“Show me,” Makoto murmurs coyly against his lips.

He arches a perfect eyebrow at him. Looks like Makoto is in the mood to play. “Careful, Makoto, or you might get more than you bargained for.” 

“ _Show me_ ,” he challenges.

Haru grins roguishly. How could he possibly deny him anything? On his birthday no less? 

Their tongues curl and dance against the other, swallowing wanton moans and content sighs. When breath is needed, Haru pulls away. His bright, piercing, iridescent eyes focused entirely on Makoto. The predatory glint in Haru’s eyes sends a shock of excitement throughout his already shivering body.

“Makoto,” his gentle tone runs counter to the searing heat lying under the calming blue of his eyes. 

“Ha-Haru?” his voice is unsteady and questioning. 

Haru weaves their hands together and brings his wrist up to his lips and—while not breaking eye contact with him—murmurs against his skin, “I’m going to fuck you hard and deep. I’m going to fuck _every. last. drop_ of come out of you, Makoto.” 

Startled, he does a double take. Makoto’s eyes bulge out of his sockets at the declaration. They aren’t strangers to dirty talk, sure, but wow. This was a new level of explicitness that he was not expecting from Haru.

He likes it.   
**_A lot._**    
Maybe a little **too** much.

And is very much in favor of it being a common occurrence as he feels his cock spasm and leak in anticipation. His mouth runs dry at the prospect—causing the scratchy hoarseness of his voice.

“Yes. _Please_. I-I want it—I need it. Haru, please.” 

His smile is soft but unmistakable. “I’ll take care of you, Makoto.”  

With unsurprising fluidity, Haru slides down his body, licking and worshipping every last millimeter of his sun-kissed flesh. It’s the middle of November and, although, his summer tan has lightened considerably, the lovely, natural olive undertones remain. His lips linger at his neck and collarbone, his fingers rolling and flicking at his nipples, the bow brushing against his thigh—somehow, managing to avoid his erection. Haru drags his tongue down his sternum, licking at the slick, salty skin of his pectorals before nipping gently at the dusty, perky buds at the center. 

Haru gently blows a stream of cold air at his pebbled nubs, goose bumps erupting around the bundle of sensitive nerves. Blunt teeth catches the raised peaks, causing Makoto to gasp and arch into him, pushing his nipples further into the warm, wet cavern of his mouth. Haru curls his tongue around him, pulling him into his mouth and using the backs of his teeth to scrape against the puckered flesh. He switches his amorous attentions to its twin; suckling and nibbling at it until it’s raw and Makoto’s body is wracked with sobs. 

Makoto still hasn’t been given explicit permission to touch Haru and it is sufficiently driving him insane. He begs and pleads but it falls on deaf ears as Haru continues his pleasurable assault over his torso. He arches off the bed and fists the sheets, pulling them from their corners but it’s not enough—not even close. His fingers itch for _Haru_ and the cool sheets do nothing to douse the liquid fire coursing through him; raging like an uncontained wildfire.

Pitiful whimpers escape from him when Haru’s wet lips trail hotly over his ribcage. He releases his grip on the sheets and tunnels his fingers through his sandy, damp and sweaty hair, tugging and scratching at his scalp and groaning when Haru pinches his nipples. He wriggles under his ministrations—trying break away from the torture while simultaneously begging for more. A sharp cry bubbles from his throat at the unexpected bite to his abdominals and he mewls at the string of nibbles along the V of his pelvis. 

His throat grows dry and sore, “Haru, please, I can’t… I, please, I nee—,” he chokes on his words when Haru quickly flicks his tongue at tip of his cock, lapping at the drops of pre-come gathered there, and bestowing the crown with a quick, open-mouthed kiss.

Haru drops another brief kiss at his sensitive balls before moving south again. His teeth scraping teasingly at his inner thighs, hands stroking and massaging his solid, powerful quads until the tense muscles melt under his touch. His lips caressing his knees down his shins and calves to his ankles and then taking the same track up the opposite leg. Makoto can already feel the hickeys and bruises forming over his flesh and just knows that his legs are going to be littered with angry reds and mottled blues and purples. Thank goodness for the cold weather because otherwise, there would be no way he can hide the marks from curious and teasing eyes. As it already stands, he’s a walking, talking bruise. And if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s a hemophiliac with how often he shows up sporting new, fresh marks. 

Makoto arches clean off the bed when Haru’s wet, warm tongue laps at his perineum and clenched hole. The scent of ‘fresh ocean breeze’ lingers on his skin. Haru pulls away and rests his chin against his thigh.

His deep, blue eyes gleaming in amusement as he cheekily grins at him. “So when you said you wanted to ‘wash up,’ you meant…” 

“Shut up,” Makoto abruptly cuts him off, his face resembling a ripe tomato as he blushes in embarrassment. Of all the dumb things to get embarrassed about. As if any of this was new.

“You wanted this from the beginning—before I even asked.”

“Shut. Up.”  

 _Ugh, Haru really could be the worst sometimes._  

Instead of looking put off or annoyed by it, Haru’s grin grows even wider. 

 _Ass_.

Haru nips the inside of his thigh one more time before trailing back to his crotch. He unapologetically laps at the coarse, curly hair at the base of Makoto’s erection. But he doesn’t linger as he moves on to nose his balls and perineum, inhaling the clean and musky scent that is uniquely Makoto before dipping the tip of his tongue into his entrance. Makoto’s howls rattle the walls, his legs jerk off the bed in mild surprise, toes curling, and his fingers clawing and shredding the sheets, ripping a rather impressive hole in it.  

 _Well, they needed to get new sheets anyway._  

Haru reaches up to stroke his tense wrist and hands, urging him to relax.

“Har-Haru... Can I please?”  

Haru pulls away for a split second to give him permission to touch him back. “But don’t even think about touching yourself.” 

Immediately, he feels his body lighten, no longer bound and weighed down by the impossibly untenable task. He doesn’t need to touch or relieve himself—feeling Haru’s skin under his fingers is more than enough. Haru extends his hand, and taking his cue, laces his fingers with Haru’s. With the other, he cradles the back of his head. 

He squirms against the tongue probing at his opening. He bends and spreads his knees, opening himself up and presenting himself like a veritable buffet to Haru, allowing him better access to his twitching hole. The vibrations from Haru’s pleased hum courses through his veins, inciting a fresh rush of arousal, inducing a new burst of pre-come to trickle down his swaying cock.   

Makoto whines on the bed as Haru continues his agonizingly slow feast, his nose pressed up against his perineum. The short curls tickle his nose whenever he bumps up against his balls. He suckles at the swollen rim, his tongue flicking and thrusting in and out of him, licking the hot, soft flesh in attempts to loosen the ring of muscles.

And Makoto tries; he really tries to relax and loosen up for Haru but the relentless pleasure keeps crashing into him over and over again that he just can’t help but clench and squeeze in pleasure. He lifts his head to peer down at Haru which proves to be a mistake when he notices a drop of cloudy come clinging to Haru’s dark, shiny hair.

He flops back down in a pathetic whimper, his throat becoming scratchier and strained with every pass of the tongue and scrape of teeth. He releases an embarrassingly loud and lurid moan when Haru curls his tongue, wiggling it as deep as he can get it. 

 _Fuck, Haru is really going to town._  

Like he's trying to devour him, trying to consume every last bit of him and not leaving even the tiniest of crumbs to waste. It’s an embarrassing thought and scenario but beggars can’t be choosers. He desperately wants to come. He’s not going to last much longer. Frankly, he’s surprised he’s lasted this long. But Haru doesn’t seem too eager to assist him in doing so.

“Haru… please, ’M s-so close. Can… can I _pleasepleaseplease_ …” He chokes but instantly regrets it. Haru may decide to not let him come just yet. Haru has a tendency to prolong, delay, or otherwise deny him release if he’s feeling frisky. And, well, Haru’s certainly feeling very frisky today.  

Haru pulls away from him, nibbling at his thigh. His eyes drift up, the blue ring around his pupils barely visible, and ask inquisitively, almost innocently, “What do you need?”

He doesn’t even pretend to resist. He doesn’t even bother being bashful. “To come! Ple-Please, Haru, I need to come,” he sobs wretchedly.

Haru quickly climbs up to him, still expertly avoiding his weeping cock and brushes his hair back, trying to soothe a delirious Makoto. “Shh-shh-shh, Makoto. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He whines and hiccups. “Please, Haru… I can’t… ’S too—too much. P...lease?”

His erection is bordering on _too_ painful, his balls too heavy and too tight against him that it’s downright aching. Haru stares a little too intently at the way a drop of pre-come rolls down the length of his cock and he’s a little too intrigued at the way his balls flush and tighten against the base.  

Haru wants to keep teasing him but the twinge of sympathy prevents from doing so. Besides, they have the rest of the day to play.

“It’s okay, Makoto,” he coos kindly. “You can come.” 

Makoto peels open his eyes. His pretty eyes grow shiny and wet with unshed tears. A deep, shuddering gasp of relief wracks his body, “R-really?” 

“Really, Makoto.” Haru’s hand drifts leisurely down over his torso and hips. His knuckles finally brushing the base of his cock, sending a jolt though Makoto and he arches at the electrifying touch. “Here. See?”

Haru starts slowly, curling his slender fingers around him and lazily pumping him, careful not to overwhelm him with too much, too fast. As Makoto’s moans grow in frequency and intensity, his grip gradually tightens. His strokes becoming faster, harder, shallower. Makoto writhes; his back arching completely off the bed, his damp hair sticking to his forehead, the high-pitched whine straining his throat. 

Haru watches in awe at the bliss playing out across his flushed face. The unshed tears from earlier finally falling from half-open eyes. He practically melts into the sheets, his tense body finally uncoiling and relaxing as he surrenders to the mind-numbing and body-tingling pleasure. Haru loves watching Makoto come apart like this. The slack-jawed panting, rosy cheeks, and thunderous keens when he presses his thumb at his slit.

Concluding he’s taken as much as he can, Haru tightens his hold, twists his wrist, and swipes his thumb at the gushing head whilst murmuring, “Come for me, Makoto.”

Makoto mindlessly follows the command, coming violently with a broken cry as spurt after spurt of thick, milky cream erupts from his swollen cock, emptying his balls and staining his heaving chest and stomach with white, hot heat. Haru sucks in a sharp breath at the streaks of warm come that winds up staining his neck. With his hand slick with come, he continues to gently pump his softening cock, guiding Makoto through his orgasm until he twitches and whimpers at the sensation. 

Makoto eventually loses consciousness, lost to the explosiveness of his climax. But when he regains his faculties again, he realizes he wasn’t out for long; not with Haru licking the still warm come from his chest and stomach, looking very much like a satisfied kitten lapping at a bowl of cream. 

Haru seems to notice the exact moment he returns to the land of the living and crawls up to kiss him thoroughly. He tastes salty and bitter (from the come) but also minty. He must have rinsed his mouth while he blacked out. Haru is so considerate. 

“Happy birthday, Makoto,” he rumbles huskily. 

Makoto splutters, giggling manically, “Hell of a way to say happy birthday, Haru-chan.” 

Haru frowns crossly at him, “Do you know how long waited for you to wake up? And to think, I skipped my bath this morning.” 

He scratches his cheek and chuckles sheepishly, “Heh, sorry, Haru-chan.”  

 _Ugh, he’s too cute when he does that._  

Haru sits perched on his stomach, “Idiot. It’s your birthday. You’re allowed to sleep in if you want to.” He pauses briefly before continuing, “You’re forgiven.” 

“You’re so generous,” Makoto cracks sleepily.  

Haru smiles softly at him, enjoying the way his face his still tinged pink, his eyelids fluttering over his glassy eyes, his sandy hair fanned over the pillows, his chest shuddering as he still struggles to take in air. He's... radiant. 

He leans down to kiss him again, “You’re beautiful like this.” 

Startled at the compliment, Makoto sinks into the mattress, shyly denying Haru’s appraisal. “I’m… I’m really not. Haru-chan’s the beautiful one.” 

Haru shakes his head adamantly, “But you are. Here, I’ll prove it.” 

He clamors off him and hangs over the side of the bed as he reaches for something on the floor, his body draped over Makoto’s. Unable to resist, he lightly smacks his bottom. 

“Makoto!” he squawks in dismay.

“Sorry,” he soothes the reddened cheek he spanked before squeezing apologetically. “Couldn’t help it.” 

“You could so,” he retorts.

He glosses his response and instead asks, “What are you doing over there?” 

“Proving to you that you are beautiful.” 

“...By wriggling your butt at me?” 

Haru clicks his tongue at him, “Don’t be a smart ass. Pull me up.”  

He easily wraps his arms around Haru’s athletic frame and heaves him back onto the bed. Haru clutches the familiar sketchbook to his chest. When he settles back against his stomach, he flips through the pages until he finds what he’s looking for and proudly shows it to him. Speechless, Makoto blinks at the sketch. It’s of him but he has a far-away look in his eye. He can’t be certain of what he was doing but judging from the small smile the drawing wears tells, he was most likely thinking of Haru. It’s drawn entirely in pencil and it’s quite obvious that Haru spent a considerable amount of time on this. Short strokes fill in shadows, long strokes accentuates his features. Dark strokes and light strokes, and deliberate smudges fill the page. 

Haru flips the page and it’s another pencil drawing of him. This time, he’s smiling. His eyes are closed and his head tilted to one side in such a way that it reminds him of his mother. Is that how he really smiles? How has he never noticed that? It’s just another thing he’s picked up from his mother he supposes.   

“Haru,” he reaches out to traces the grey lines on the page but not quite touching it for fears of smearing it. “This is…” 

“Beautiful. I told you so.” 

He smiles softly, “It’s only beautiful because you drew me that way.” 

Haru shakes his head in frustration. He doesn’t know if it’s modesty or what but he doesn’t like it. He needs to set him straight because Makoto really _is_ beautiful. And gorgeous. And handsome. And whatever other adjective you want to use 3. 

“No. It’s because you are beautiful.” 

“I’m really not,” he denies quietly.    

Haru smacks him on the chest with the sketchbook and glares at him sternly, “What are you trying to say? That I have bad taste? I will not have you disparaging my boyfriend, do you understand?” 

He rubs his chest, the metal binding hit his sternum rather hard, “I-I understand.” He actually doesn’t. He’s not sure why he’s getting so worked up over this. 

“I don’t think you do, Makoto.” Haru rests the sketchbook over his chest to cradle his face in his hands. “ _You_ are beautiful. These sketches? This is how I see you all the time. And it’s still a pale representation of you.” He bashfully looks away, biting his lip as his mind works out what to say next, “If you tell anyone I said this, I will deny it until the day I die, okay?” 

Makoto nods meekly. The fire and determination set in the oceanic tones of his eyes lures him deeper and deeper and he has no choice but to listen. 

“You take my breath away. When I look at you, it’s like staring right at the very embodiment of beauty. All the poems and songs and myths and stories in all of history pale in comparison. I could spend a lifetime—a _thousand_ , a _million_ lifetimes—and there still wouldn't be enough words in this universe, _or_ _the_ _next_ , to describe just how beautiful you are.” 

Makoto swallows roughly, emotions welling up as his heart stutters in his chest, the butterflies fluttering wildly in his stomach as the warmth of his words hit him like a ten-ton freight train traveling at top speed. Now, there are a lot of words in the human language but he can’t seem to find the ones to express how Haru’s makes him feel. The earnest sincerity in his voice leaves him no choice but to believe in it wholeheartedly. He’ll never doubt or question it ever again.  

 _Oh, Haru’s mouth is still moving._  

“-sides, I’m an artist so when I say something is beautiful, you take me at my word—no rebuttals, no arguments. Consider it as the word of God, okay?” 

He exhales shakily; he didn’t even know he was holding a breath. He thought he was supposed to be the eloquent one and yet here he is: speechless. He pulls Haru toward him, their foreheads pressed against each other. He releases a delirious, quivering laugh.

“No arguments,” he agrees. “Thank you, Haru. I love you.” 

“I know,” he pauses for several beats before adding, “I love you, Makoto.”  

Curious, Makoto picks up the sketchbook and flips though it ( _wow, how many sketches of him are there?_ ) and stops at an unfinished drawing of him sleeping. Haru yanks it out of his hands, slamming it shut. 

The blush that graces Haru’s face is delightfully endearing. "Uh, ignore that one. It’s creepy.” 

He bites his lip to keep himself from smiling too widely. “A little bit, yeah. But I don’t mind it. As long as it’s you.”

Haru slides the drawings onto the nightstand and cuddles into his chest. They bask in each other’s warmth, hands and fingers randomly dancing and stroking their sides contently. The two lovers lie quietly together, in no hurry to continue with the promise of their sexcapades; perfectly satisfied in indulging and savoring in the skin-to-skin contact and relishing in the gentle breaths that tickles noses and cheeks. Reveling in the low, indistinct murmurs of silly, random thoughts that lead to delightful snorts, tinkling laughter, and delirious giggles.

That is until Makoto breaks the comfortable intimacy. “So… Are we going to have sex now?”   

Haru snorts in amusement, “That’s the plan.” Haru pushes himself up to straddle him again. His eyes dart away shyly, “Do you still want me to—” 

“What happened to ‘fucking every last drop of come out of me?’” he interrupts cheekily. 

“It’s called exercising consent.” Haru rolls his eyes and reaches over into the drawer, pulling out the bottle of lube. 

“Oh. Well, then it’s a resounding yes.” Makoto glances down and the streak of green still tied around Haru. It’s crumpled, wrinkled, twisted, and completely mangled though. 

Haru follows his line of sight. “How many times do you think you can come, Makoto?”

“Wha—?” _What does that have to do with anything?_ “I-I don’t know,” he stutters helplessly.

“Let’s find out.” 

The laser-eyed focus and curious glimmer in Haru’s eyes makes him nervous4. “Wa-wait, Haru, I…”

Haru presents the green bow to him. “Would you like to unwrap your gift now?” 

Makoto bristles at the abrupt change of topic— _every damn time_ —but he can’t find it in himself to be too upset—because why would he?—So he nods instead. “Can I?” 

“How else do you expect to play with your present?” 

He reaches for the end of the ribbon and softly tugs it loose, the satin _fwip_ ing as it passes through the knot. The bow completely falls apart, unraveling and pooling under his half hard erection. Makoto licks his lips at the unobstructed view of the smooth, pink cock while Haru gathers up the crinkled ribbon. 

“It’s seen better days,” he mutters and discards it over the bed. 

Haru’s hands absentmindedly skim over his torso, fingers lingering and caressing the multitude of hickeys that's blossomed over the surface, as if he were trying to discern how the marks came to be. 

Makoto eagerly slides his hands up his thighs and firm ass now that he’s allowed to touch back, stopping to squeeze his waist and hips. That seems to shake Haru out of his stupor. The click of the cap seems to echo in their ears.

Smiling, Haru leans down to kiss him, murmuring against his lips, “Spread your legs for me.” 

Makoto instinctively obeys his request and Haru squeezes a generous amount of the cold lube in his hands. He rubs his hands together, warming up the lube before reaching behind again, this time to smear the lube around his rim.  

Makoto shifts, giving Haru better access to his opening. A slick, slender finger sinks into him. It’s a slow entry that drags along his warm, soft, silky walls. Haru slides in and out of him cautiously, taking his time as to not to hurt him and stroking his chest to allay any distress or discomfort. Since it’s been weeks since he last bottomed, he’s a bit tight from the lack of use. The thought of Makoto taking him tighter than usual makes him swell further, his cock becoming even more engorged with the hot blood rushing to his groin. He swipes at the pre-come that’s dribbled down his cock and now pooled at Makoto’s pelvis.

Makoto rubs at the head, spreading the sticky fluid up and down his length. Haru pants and rocks his pelvis, trying to fuck his fist but at Makoto’s gentle squeeze, Haru snaps out of his reverie and resumes prepping him, pumping in and out of him gently as Makoto presses down against him.

Eventually, Haru eases another into him, fingers gently climbing up his walls and fanning the digits in order to open and stretch him further. Makoto’s cock stirs at the wiggling fingers, standing in attention as it slaps against the curve of Haru’s ass and leaving streaks of pre-come on his lower back with every roll of his hips. A third finger pushes past the ring of muscles that leaves him gasping for oxygen.  

Settling knuckles deep in him, Haru begins the slow, steady rubbing of his walls. 

“It’s been a while, Makoto. You’re going to have to tell me where, okay?”

With the low groan of ‘ _yes_ ,’ Haru proceeds to slide his fingers deeper. The pads of his fingertips stretching and reaching as far in as they can. He curls his fingers, brushing his prostate, producing a startled yelp from Makoto. 

“There?” He murmurs quietly.

“Ye-yes, so good. D-don't stop,” Makoto stammers desperately. 

Haru presses into the gland over and over again at varying speeds and pressure, massaging it in a circular motion as he eagerly re-maps his insides. After weeks of neglect, the sudden onslaught of attention leaves Makoto in a sobbing, babbling heap, completely falling apart under his touches. Haru leans over him, nipping at his chin and nuzzling his neck. 

“You’re so tight, Makoto. Are you sure you can take me like this?” 

He claws at his straining biceps, needy whimpers falling from his lips, “Yes, Haru, ple-please, I can... Please make me come again.” 

Haru continues to rub at his insides, his channel clenching and tightening around him whenever his fingers retract, as if he were trying to keep him within his walls. 

“Do you want to come like this? With just my fingers?” 

Makoto can (and has) on occasion done exactly that and his walls tighten at the suggestion but the whine that comes from his chest is full of sorrow, as if he can’t bear the thought of not having Haru's cock stuffed in his ass. 

He shakes his head, his voice quivers but he’s bold in his declaration, “I want your cock in me.” 

He drives his fingers against his prostate again; Makoto gasps breathlessly and clamps down in him again, “Then you’re going to have to let me go, Makoto.”  

He slowly withdraws from his pulsing—and reluctant—walls, Makoto whimpering at the empty feeling as his hole clenches futilely at air. Haru shimmies down, swinging Makoto’s legs to fall on either side of his hips.   
Haru covers his jutting cock with lube and curls his fingers around himself, stroking leisurely, not enough to get off but just enough to take the edge off. His eyes dart from Makoto’s twitching asshole and his face. 

Haru pushes against his thighs, leaning over him. “It’s been so long, Makoto. Can you remember what I feel like?” 

The low husk of his question draws a throaty, pitiful whine from Makoto, his voice catching in his throat. 

Haru rubs his cockhead at his entrance, “Shall I remind you?” 

It’s crackly and croaky but he finds his voice, nodding enthusiastically at the same time, “Yes. Please.”  

As Haru settles back between his legs, Makoto raises his hips for him, helping Haru align himself at his entrance. Haru’s cock is even more swollen than it usually is; the head is flushed a dark red and visibly pulsating, foreskin pulled back tightly, pre-come spouting from his slit and liberally coating his length—making the lube extraneous. He realizes that it’s because he still hasn’t come yet. While he’s already wrung out an explosive orgasm from him, Haru has held himself back. His poor cock is screaming red, the prominent vein popping out in relief, and looks like it’s about to burst. And his balls must be aching. 

“Makoto,” the ruddy head rubbing at his slippery rim, “I’m not going to last very long.” 

Makoto nods furiously in understanding, “I know. It’s okay, Haru-chan. Just come inside.”  

Haru slides his hand up his shoulder, pressing his palm into him and pinning him to the bed. Makoto reaches for him, one arm curling around his bicep while the other fists at the short, black strands at the nape of his neck. Haru firmly wraps his fingers around his cock—just under the belled head—and presses in until the head pops through the ring of muscles. Makoto's jaw unhinges, gasping for air as Haru slowly pushes in—pushing past the tense muscles as they involuntarily tighten. 

Haru groans, clenching his teeth at the sight and feel of his length being slowly swallowed up by Makoto's stretched, pink hole. The wet suction of his ass gradually sucking him in.   
Once again, Makoto is reminded of just how long it’s been since they’ve done this because his walls **burn** and **sting**  in the most exquisite fashion as he slowly accommodates Haru’s thick, throbbing member.  

Once he’s completely buried to the hilt, Haru pauses in order to rediscover the wonders of Makoto’s body. And also to let Makoto re-familiarize himself with his cock.

“I’ve missed this—you—so much, Makoto,” he stumbles and slurs through his words. “Makoto, I don’t think…”  

“’S okay,” he repeats, arching into him. He’s not as acclimated as either one would like to be and he’s probably not as ready as he should be but he doesn’t particularly care. Not when he’s so desperate and burning for Haru. Not when Haru is slurring his words and is so close to coming, to filling him up.  

Haru takes that as an invitation to move so he rises up on his knees. Dragging Makoto’s lower half with him, his lower back and ass lifted clean off the bed, Haru thrusts—or more accurately, _plows_ —into his warmth.   
Slamming balls deep into him.   
Bottoming out over and over again. Hands slip and slide over the slippery, sweat soaked olive skin. Haru’s biceps and forearms bulge and tense as he tilts his pelvis, the angle of his thrusts changing just enough for his cock to bump into his prostate with unnerving accuracy.  

The squeaking of the creaky bedsprings is quickly drowned out by Makoto's throaty cries. “Yes! Oh, ah, th-right there, Hah- _Haruka_! …Again! Haru!” Makoto practically squeals in delight. 

Haru grits his teeth. He’s pretty sure that Makoto’s screams were the last thing their neighbors would have expected to hear when they woke up this morning. And when they reflect on this afterward, they’d probably die of embarrassment but in the moment, he’d like nothing more than for everyone in their complex to know exactly who is making Makoto come apart at the seams. To know who makes Makoto scream in ecstasy. To know who Makoto yearns for.  

Makoto’s legs dangle and swing uselessly at every relentless snap of Haru’s hips, his fingers tearing more holes into the sheets. Haru slams into his prostate over and over again in an unrelenting pace. Each thrust harder and rougher than the one before it and he’s beginning to seriously doubt that he’d be able to walk properly tomorrow.   
Or sit.   
For the next week. 

His cock sways helplessly in the air at every drive of Haru's hips, slapping wetly at their pelvises and stomachs from the steady trickle of pre-come trailing down his length.He moans at the achingly familiar shape and pressure and tantalizing heat; groans obscenely the incredible girth and weight stretching, taunting, and fucking him. He really almost did forget how Haru feels when he’s inside him. How wonderful the feeling is. How much he loves having Haru like this. How much he loves being spread out underneath Haru and having him slide in and out of him so deliciously.

 _Idiot_ , he chastises himself. _Never again_ , he solemnly promises.  

“You’re so wet... So hot... so tight. You feel so good, Makoto,” he groans in appreciation. 

“Y-you too, Haru-chan. So deep... You feel… amazing. Love… Love your cock, Haru— _ka,_ ” his voice breaking into a whimper at the last vowel. 

Haru falls forward, burying his face into his sweaty neck. “Oh, fuck, Makoto.”   

Makoto kisses his neck, sending shivers down his body. The need to seek out his lips overpowers the rest of his desires. Their kiss is messy, breathless, and sloppy with far too much teeth and saliva but it doesn’t stop the relentless wave of pleasure from crashing into them.  
His thrusts slow down to a gentle rocking, causing a bewildered Makoto to open his eyes and search for his. 

His eyes are questioning and by way of answering, Haru murmurs ardently, “Makoto. I love you.”

He relaxes and sinks into the mattress, his eyes softening at Haru’s sudden burst of affection. “I love you, Haruka,” he murmurs back.  

They stay like that for several moments—all soft kisses and tender touches. Until the gentle rocking proves to be too slow and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to bear with so Makoto squeezes him fervently.

“I’m close, Haruka,” his whispered breath tickles his nose. 

Haru reaches down, wrapping his long, slender fingers around his dripping cock and squeezes him playfully, earning a breathless hiss from him. “I know. I’ll take care of you.”  

Pushing himself back onto his knees again, Haru throws one of his legs over his shoulder and looping his other arm around his thigh and digs his fingers into his perfect, round bottom. Makoto forces his eyes to stay open, not wanting to miss a single second of Haru coming. His legs begin to shake uncontrollably, his hands rakes at Haru’s forearms, leaving raised streaks of red on his pale flesh. Haru claims his hip and his grip on him is tight, his flesh paling under the pressure of Haru's fingers as he pulls him onto his cock, his ass slapping against his thighs as Haru slides into him. Haru lavishes wet, open-mouthed kisses on his knee and thigh and Makoto can’t do much except bear down his walls around Haru’s swollen cock as he feels his impending orgasm. 

“M’koto…” Haru chokes. He knows what that means: he’s coming. 

Makoto feels, hears, and sees Haru coming—filling his quivering passage with his hot release, painting his insides with the sticky juices and spilling over the rim and onto the sheets. He throws his head back as broken syllables vaguely resembling Haru’s name bubbles from his throat. His balls tighten and he shouts his own earth-shattering climax shortly after as he comes untouched. Thick ropes of milky come coating his stomach and chest again, the exquisite and familiar feel of creamy, hot come filling him triggering his own orgasm. Haru keeps driving into him, milking their releases, until the stimulation proves to be too much, can no longer keep up and collapses on top of him after gently slipping out.  

The intoxicating scent of sex and perspiration hangs thick in the air, smothering them. Autumn is almost over with winter fast approaching and yet, the stifling heat refuses to be ignored. Spent and sated, they lie in tangled limbs of exhaustion, panting and greedily pulling air into their oxygen-deprived lungs. Their bodies dripping with sweat—pooling in the grooves and crevasses of their abdominals—and sticky with come. Haru kisses his thumping heart, snuggling deeper into his embrace. 

“That…” he pants, “was incredible," his voice is raspier than he’s ever heard it before–the screaming leaving his throat sore and raw.

Haru murmurs in agreement, “Glad you enjoyed your present.” 

A warm, jovial, heartfelt laugh shakes Makoto, “Best present I’ve ever had the privilege of receiving.”  

There’s a brief, comfortable silence before Haru quietly breaks it, “Sorry I came before you.”

A short snort-chuckle escapes from Makoto. “Don’t be silly. That isn’t something to apologize for. Besides, I came immediately after you.”  

Makoto winces, his wet, leaking hole is tender and raw from overstimulation but he ignores the mild discomfort in favor of rolling them over. He’s still breathless and tired but wants to feel Haru’s lithe body squirm beneath him. He spies the sketchbook lying innocently in the nightstand and grins down at him. 

“I wish I could draw. I wanna show you what you look like when you come. How beautiful you are.” 

Haru pushes him back, rolling them onto their sides and kisses him. “Now there’s an idea…”  

Makoto sighs contently and then realizes what Haru said. His eyes snap open in alarm, “Wait, no. Haru, no.” 

“Oh, yes. I think I know what my next project is going to be.” 

“Haruuu!” 

“I think it’ll be my favorite by the time I’m done. I think I’ll frame it. Maybe I’ll add some color to it too. I like how red you get right as you’re coming.” 

“No fair, Haru-chan.” Haru just answers him with a lopsided grin and a playful laugh. 

Settling into him again, Haru draws a path between the freckles dotting across his chest, “I planned on taking you ice skating today. But we may be a bit too sore for it now. Sorry. But I made you a cake. It just needs to bake.”  

Makoto chuckles, his thumb skimming the curve of his spine. “It’s okay. It’s too cold anyway.” 

“Looks like winter is going to come early this year.” 

“Yeah. Don’t worry, Haru-chan, I’ll keep you warm.”   
Haru’s eyes soften; the blues in his eyes are vibrant and playful. “We can save on the heating bill.” 

“What? No! Then I’ll freeze!” 

“I’ll keep you warm.” 

Makoto knows he must look like a deer caught in headlights and blushing like a prepubescent teenager having his first wet dream. It’s so stupid how the most innocuous comments can render him into a lovesick fool but is able to take the filthiest of pillow talk in stride. “I’m holding you to that, Haru-chan.” 

“I promise.”   

He plants another kiss against his chest, “Happy birthday, Makoto.” 

“Thank you, Haru. It’s been the best birthday ever, Haru-chan.” 

“Until the next one,” Haru corrects him sternly. There’s going to be _a lot_ of birthdays after this one. 

He chuckles, “Until the next one,” he agrees happily5.

Haru finally peels himself off of his sticky body and unabashedly floats out of the room buck ass naked. There’s some clanging from the kitchen and he hears the low hum of the refrigerator but he makes no move to get out of bed to join Haru. He has a feeling that Haru doesn’t want him to do much of anything and he’s proven right when Haru returns to the room juggling a bowl of fresh fruit, his water bottle, a glass of orange juice, and a towel. He moves to help but Haru glares at him, _I got this_ , so he returns to reclining against the pillows.  

Haru hands him the bowl of fruit, “Breakfast,” he clarifies unnecessarily and places the water and orange juice on the nightstand. Haru straddles his thighs and begins to wipe him down with the warm towel. 

Makoto pops a few grapes into his mouth and grins at him. “You’re not gonna lick me clean?”

Haru sighs, sounding put upon but he knows it’s just an act. “I did that earlier. There’s only so much come I can swallow, Makoto.”

“Haru!”

“Don’t act scandalized. _You’re_ the one that asked me to lick you up,” Haru jabs his finger at his chest. 

“Yeah, but…” Haru gently swipes at his thighs, inching closer and closer to his ass and groin, “I can do that,” Makoto reaches for the towel but is brushed away.

“Would you just let me take care of you?”

“Sorry,” Makoto sinks back onto the pillows with a pout fixed on his face. 

“Just eat your breakfast.”

“Have you eaten yet?”

“Don’t worry about me.” 

He dips his fingers into the bowl and pulls out a piece of honeydew. Seeing Haru’s brows furrow in concentration, he grins mischievously. He drags the piece of melon over his come-stained chest, scooping up the sticky fluids. 

Having catches his movements out of the corner of his eye, Haru gapes at him in awe, “What are you-?”

Makoto offers the piece of fruit to Haru, grinning widely and roguishly, “Open,” he husks. 

“You want me to eat your come _that_ much?”

“Haru!” he screeches, again scandalized. 

Haru rears back and eyes him in irritation. “ _You’re_ the one offering me come-dipped fruit, Makoto.”

He draws back with a scowl, “Forget it.”   
Haru smirks and grips his wrist. His pink tongue darting out before opening his mouth to enclose his lips around the honeydew. His tongue swipes seductively at the pads of his fingers, curls around the cubed fruit, and draws it in his mouth. Staring at Makoto intently, Haru chews slowly, taking his time in savoring the sweetness of the melon and salty-tangy-bitterness of the come. 

“Not bad,” he shrugs as he returns to his clean up.

“I can’t believe you did that, Haru.”

“You’re the one-”

“Yeah, I know. You don’t have to keep reminding me.” 

Haru rolls his eyes and with one last swipe, he’s free from the sticky goop. Haru curls up next to him and offers him the bowl.

“Did you eat all the cantaloupe yet?”

He chuckles. They always fight over the cantaloupe. “There are a few pieces let. But it’s my birthday.”

“So greedy.”

He barks in laughter and offers him a piece of cantaloupe, “I can share.” 

They lie there feeding each other until the bowl is empty. As soon as the bowl is discarded to the floor, Haru is back on top of him, sliding his tongue into his mouth and he is promptly bombarded by various shades of sweetness. 

The birthday boy’s hands scale down the taut, smooth back, fingers sweeping over his heated flesh before drawing Haru’s head back and hotly whispering, “I want you to ride me, Haru-chan.”

Haru bites down on his earlobe, indicating his agreement. His hands curve over his ass, dipping between his cheeks when suddenly, the timer on the oven blares loudly. Makoto groans at the interruption, doubly so when Haru slithers out of his arms.

“Hold on to that thought. I need to put your cake in the oven.” He drifts out of the room, leaving him cold and alone with a massive, massive boner. 

 _Rude. So, so rude._

He passes the time by idly flipping through the rest of Haru’s sketchbook, blushing furiously at the drawing of a flexing back. He initially thought that maybe it was for art class but the noticeable beauty mark just to the right at the small of his back tells him otherwise. This seems to be an All-Makoto-All-The-Time sketchbook. Haru returns again so he slides the book back onto the end table. 

Settling back on his thighs, Haru leans forward, his warm breath fanning over his face. “I believe you said something about riding you?”

Squeezing Haru’s thighs, he bites his lip coyly. “That is something I said, yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Makoto’s hands trail up his torso, one hand stopping to thumb his nipple and the other skimming over his ribcage. “It’s my birthday. And for my birthday, I want you to ride me. I like watching you bounce on my cock. I love watching you fuck yourself on me.”

The corner of Haru’s lip curves up slightly. “You’re such a pervert.”

“Says you.” Haru hums in amusement, not refuting the claim. “Besides, I’m _your_ pervert.”

“That you are.”

“And you _like_ pervert-me.”

“That I do.”

Makoto’s eyes droop heavily—his bedroom eyes and come-hither look overtaking his features. “But I do want you inside me again later.”

“There you are; being all greedy again.” He shrugs nonchalantly, “You’re the birthday boy. I suppose you can get whatever you want.”

“You spoil me, Haru-chan.” 

“It’s the least I can do. You’re always spoiling me.” 

“I like spoiling you.” 

“We have so much in common. I like you spoiling me. ... And I like spoiling you too6.”  

Makoto reaches for the lube, flipping the cap up but the bottle is taken away before he could proceed with prepping his boyfriend. Haru pushes him down, rubbing his soft ass against his now raging erection. 

“I’ll take care of everything. You just relax.” 

Haru liberally coats his fingers with the slippery substance and reaches behind himself. Makoto can’t see—which is a fucking travesty—but he  **knows**  the exact moment Haru stops playing with his hole and breaches his entrance. Haru bites his lip, quieting a moan, and he finds he doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like it when Haru holds himself back and restrains himself. He wants to hear Haru; wants to hear his name fall from his lips and _all_ the lovely little noises he makes. 

Makoto reaches up and gently rubs his lips—now red and swollen—free from his teeth, “Don’t. I want to hear you, Haru-chan.”  
Haru groans deeply at his words, letting the guttural noises fill the room.  

Haru’s hand brushes at his erection as he works himself open. He knows the exact moment when Haru pushes two fingers in; knows when he rubs at his walls when he gasps wantonly. 

Makoto grips his hips roughly. “No fair, Haru. I want to see.”

Haru assents, unashamed of the request. He weakly pulls his fingers out and climbs off of him. Makoto scrambles to his knees while Haru flops down onto his back. Shoving a pillow under his ass, Haru parts his thighs, spreading his legs as wide as he can, to give Makoto full view of his leaking, swollen, pink cock and even pinker, twitching, puffy hole for his perusal and appreciation. He quickly relubes his fingers and with his patience wearing thin, shoves three fingers in. The high-pitched whine that comes from Haru is nigh unrecognizable—completely lost to the pleasure and unreasonably aroused at the level of intensity in which Makoto watches him. Haru won’t admit it, but Makoto knows full well just how turned on he gets when his eyes are focused solely on him.  

Makoto licks his lips, trying to steady his breathing but it’s difficult as his senses are assaulted: The wonderful chorus of Haru’s cries along with the wet squelching of his thrusting fingers; the sight of Haru’s body, spread wide open and flushed a deep red, as he frenzily masturbates; the smell of sex and sweat that still lingers in the air—it’s so potent that he can nearly taste it. His eyes track the dribble of pre-come trickling down his pretty cock. And there’s that descriptor again. He must have said that aloud because Haru blushes into an even deeper shade of red and gasps.

“Don’t… Don’t say that, Makoto.”

“What? _Pretty_? You said it to me. Besides, you are. Way prettier than me.”

“Mako- _to_ ,” he whines as he fucks himself harder with his fingers.

“Fuck, Haru… You look so good like this.” He reaches for his cock, wanting to relieve the pressure and ache squeezing him but Haru’s foot shoots out and stops him.

“No. Don’t touch yourself. I’ll be the one to make you come.”

“But Haru…”

Haru glares at him, which is difficult thing to achieve considering he’s got three fingers shoved up his ass and pleasuring himself so feverently. “I said I’ll take care of you.” 

He frowns and tries again, “I thought you like it when I touch myself.” 

“Not today. Lie down,” he directs.  

Disobeying is not a viable option at the moment so he rushes to follow Haru's command. He wriggles around to get comfortable and when he finds it, Haru crawls back on top. He pours a generous amount of lube over his drooling erection but instead of using his hands to coat him, he lets gravity do all the work. The whine from his throat comes unbidden and unadulterated; his cock is about to burst but Haru refuses to touch him or allow him to touch himself. Haru rises to his knees, shuffling up until his ass is hovering over his weeping cock.

He finally— _finally_ —curls his fingers around him with his clean hand and with the other, spreads himself open. He sinks down on him slowly—frustratingly, agonizingly slow—undulating his hips and rotating his pelvis. For every inch he takes in, he rises back up by two. 

Makoto holds on to the headboard—digging his nails into the cheap wood and leaving deep scratches—lest he grabs Haru by the waist, flip him over, and ravish his luscious body until he squeals. 

When he’s finally fully seated between his soft walls, Makoto groans deeply. “Haruka… Oh, Haru. So good. Love this. Love you. So much.”

Haru shudders as he gently rocks against him, pushing down on him and circling his hips. “Such a good cock, Makoto. So… Hot. I love your big, thick cock.” 

Makoto bucks up at him erratically. Haru does this on purpose. He knows— _knows damn well_ —what lavishing praise, showering him with love, and extolling the virtues of his cock does to him. It’s not unheard of but it doesn’t happen often. So when it does occur, it’s always out of nowhere and it always takes him by surprise.

Haru is _really_  spoiling him.

Haru leans over him, propping himself up on his chest so he hovers just over him. He pants against his lips, “You got bigger, Makoto. Do you like that? Do you like being told how big and thick your cock is? At being told how much I love your cock?” 

_Oh, this little jerk._

“You know I do,” he half gasps and half grits. 

Haru grins slyly, “Do you want me to continue? Do you want me to tell you how much I love the way your cock fills me up? How much I love the way you stretch me? How full you make me?” 

He whimpers weakly, glaring at him meekly, “You’re awful, Haru-chan.” 

“Am I?” 

“Don’t be mean, Haruka.” 

Haru has the audacity to chuckle. 

 _Such a jerk._  

“I’ll go slow. Just lie back and enjoy.” 

Makoto bucks at him again, earning a startled squeak-yelp from Haru. “You shouldn’t be able to form full sentences when I’m in you, Haru-chan.” 

Haru scowls, squeezing Makoto tightly in retaliation causing a deep shuddering groan from his chest, “I can say the same for you.” 

Haru pushes up, bracing his hands on his chest as he methodically rises and falls over his length, dragging out the sensations and pulling harsh pants from him. He rolls his hips, shallowly rocking back and forth as his walls ripple and tremble around his member. This isn't Haru being sweet or gentle: this is Haru taunting him. The pressure climbs and climbs, when all of a sudden, Haru stops. 

He whines in displeasure and his eyes snap open, _why’d you stop_? But he chokes on his words at Haru's fleeting, devilish grin. Perched upright on his lap, his cock buried deep within his walls, he stills. The heat surrounding him grows unbearable. He whines and whimpers, begging Haru to move—to do something, _anything_ —but he just continues to smile impishly at him. 

Haru takes his hand, bringing it up to his lips and kisses his wrist and palm. He nearly sobs again but then Haru squeezes him; he still isn’t moving but his walls pulse and throb around his sensitive flesh. The gentle clenches and not-so-gentle clenches fluttering all over him isn’t quite enough to push him to climax but it feels so, so, _so_ good. He writhes under him, his hands roam, caress, and massage Haru’s thighs and hips, sliding his fingers up his ribcage, flicking and rubbing his nipples.

“Haru… Please, I think… I don’t think I can…”

“I know, Makoto,” he pushes his arms over his head, “Hold onto the bed.”  

He does so reluctantly—he’d much rather touch and hold Haru; make him feel good too but Haru is adamant in spoiling him and if that’s what he wants, then so be it. Even though it’s _his_ birthday. 

Haru tips his head and leans back, bracing his hands on his thighs and resumes his movements over him. His movements, however, remain just as slow and deliberate as before. The gentle swaying of his body along with the slow rise and fall of his hips coupled with the continued quiver of his warm, velvety, plush flesh drives him closer and closer. Just a little more and…

Haru reaches for himself, his slender fingers coiling around his dripping cock. He moans wantonly as he tugs at himself, throwing his head back and grinding down on him. Makoto pants, whimpering at the erotic sight. This may be his  _favorite_  view of Haru; this might be when Haru is at his most beautiful—although to be fair, it constantly changes thanks to recency bias (if you asked him earlier, he would have said Haru spread wide open and fingering himself would have been his favorite). So it’s more accurate to say that this is  _currently_  his favorite view of Haru: Haru pulling at his dripping erection as he fucks himself eagerly on his cock. 

Makoto grits gruffly, his hands clench tightly around the headboard, the veins in his forearms bulge and he lurches against him. Haru whines and struggles for breath, squeezing himself to stop from coming before him. Haru finally speeds up, riding him harder and faster, building up to a full gallop until he’s bouncing on his cock—taking him deeper and deeper, his hot, tight ass swallowing and sucking his length down to the hilt. 

“Ha-Haru… more…”

Haru arches, driving his cock impossibly deeper, his tightened balls sitting flush against Haru’s ass. Makoto’s hands fly to clamp around Haru’s hips when his walls squeeze and hug him in a tight, warm embrace. With a well-placed and well-timed twist of his hips, Makoto comes with a silent scream. Haru roughly jerks himself once, twice and gasps his name hoarsely as he releases climax all over Makoto’s stomach and chest, with some landing as far as his cheek.  

Haru slumps forward, easing himself off his softening cock with a wet, lewd pop. Moaning when he feels the warm come spilling from his opening and trickling over his thigh, Makoto pulls Haru to his side. Haru swipes at his cheek, gathering the come clinging to his skin and smears it over his chest and nipples, using it to draw nonsensical patterns over his skin.

“You’re a mess, Makoto.”

He pinches Haru’s ass playfully, “Hey, this is _your_ mess.”

“Yeah, well, don’t expect me to lick it clean.” 

“Haru!”  

The oven timer blares again, signaling that the cake is done baking. Haru groans—he hasn’t even gotten his breath back—and rolls away to deal with the oven but Makoto holds him tighter.

“Makoto, I need to take the cake out.” 

“Leave it.” 

“I can’t. It’ll dry out if it stays in the heat. I won’t be long.” He grabs the box of tissues and tosses it to him, “Clean up and rest a bit. I’ll get you when lunch is ready.” 

“You’re making lunch too? You really _are_ spoiling me.” 

“I told you. It’s your birthday.” He rolls out of bed, leans over him, brushes his hair back, and gently kisses his forehead, “Rest up. You’ll need your energy.”

“Haru…” He starts but Haru already tuned him out, tugging on a pair of sweatpants (and _only_ a pair of sweatpants). 

Makoto tosses the soiled tissues in the wastebasket and settles into the mattress, exhaustion finally claiming his limbs. He yawns, his body falling limp from his third orgasm and curls up on his side and pulls the blanket up to his shoulders, dropping off to sleep but not before drowsily murmuring, “Love you, Haru-chan.” 

It’s faint but he always hears it when Haru whispers back, “Love you, Makoto.” There’s a pregnant pause but Haru is speaking again, “By the way, by my count, that was three.” Makoto snaps awake in alarm. “After your nap, we’ll work on four, five, and maybe six.”

 _Is he...?_  

He throws a pillow at him in horror while Haru cackles out the room. “You’re a monster, Haru-chan!” 

_Haru really can be the worst._

**Author's Note:**

> Goodness, there is a lot going on here…  
> Footnote style notes is now a thing I’m trying. Why? Reasons. Let’s see how well it works.
> 
> 1 Oh, Haru, my sweet prince, Makoto's just humoring you.  
> 2 That’s not _all_ that happened. There was obviously lots of preparation and stretching involved. They really have learned from that particular encounter. Also, I thought about writing this as a one shot but OMG, if there's such a thing as _too_ much smut, it would have been it. And as I've said before, smut writing is laborious.  
>  3 Smoking hot. The adjective you're looking for is smoking hot.  
> 4 Haru is far too curious; much to Makoto's detriment. May the gods have mercy on you, Makoto.  
> 5 This is where I initially ended things but then, as usual, things just kept escalating and all of a sudden, I’ve got a novel-length one-shot of smut on my hands. I really should have just stopped here because now I've got nothing for my other fic. And that right there is my problem. I just want to cram everything in (phrasing?) all at once. There was even more but I refrained. It was a struggle but I did it. Are you proud of me?  
> 6 So. much. flirting. FLIRTERERS!!  
> 
> 
> Also, I wish I could draw… there would be some pretty hilarious panels of Haru waiting for Makoto to wake up in vain. Any volunteers? ;D
> 
> Black bean chocolate cake is a thing and it's fucking delicious. I highly recommend it.  
> And then, because there was extra buttercream icing, there was some inappropriate use of food. They just can't help themselves.
> 
> Awww. He really did let Makoto call him Haru-chan all day!
> 
> Haru can be such a sap. 
> 
> As I was putting the finishing touches on this, I suddenly thought maybe I should make this fluffier because they've been going _at_ it. But that would require large swaths of it to be revised so I went, nah. It's still sufficiently fluffy though. 
> 
> Sorry for leaving you a short novel worth of footnotes. I hope my ramblings weren't to, well, rambling. I have too many thoughts.
> 
> Leave your comments and your kudos! MakoHaru appreciates it.


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